


Moving In

by johnnywalkerblu



Category: The Strain (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-02
Updated: 2015-09-02
Packaged: 2018-04-18 16:35:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4712858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnnywalkerblu/pseuds/johnnywalkerblu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Extended/Missing scene for Season 2, Episode 7- The Born.</p>
<p>What happened between Dutch and Fet after the fade?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Moving In

The squawk of a squad car, bent out of shape by the odd spaces between its siren and his ear, brings Vasiliy Fet up out of sleep with a start, confused. He’d been dreaming about his parents, about his last confrontation with his father. He and the old man had been going through those same old motions, pushing each other’s buttons in the way only the two of them seem capable of, when his father’s face had begun to change, to slip. And he’d realized with slow terror that what he’d thought was still his papa was a strigoi, already unlimbering its stinger. And he’d been alone, no tall blonde beauty there to save his throat. 

Running a hand back through his hair, he wonders why that should bother him so much. He hadn’t known her then, there was no reason Dutch should have featured in his dream. Except, of course, for what she means to him now. That thought rolls him over to regard her, sleeping peacefully beside him, the yellow top sheet pulled to her chin.

She's beautiful. All creamy skin and shining golden hair, her face scrubbed clean. She looks maybe nineteen, which makes him feel ancient and lecherous for a minute, but her age doesn't really matter. She's an old soul, his gorgeous Dutch, maturity comes quick when you've had to wade through shit like she has since her father died. 

A small huff escapes her, and she twists, nestling in to her pillow, beginning to snore just a little bit. He props himself on an elbow to wait; experience tells him that she’ll snore a little, toss and turn for another minute or two, then she’ll wake up. 

Not for the first time, he wonders what goes on behind those lovely features. In some ways, she’s an open book to him. He knows why she’s stayed in the fight, the pride she takes in being the one he trusts to guard his back, her joy in the uncomplicated, completely hedonistic pleasure they find in one another’s arms. 

But sometimes, she gets a look on her face and he doesn’t have the slightest inkling what she’s thinking. When she’d showed him the whatever-it-was she was making with his welding equipment for one, when she’d come to him and told him she was ready to go see that Nicki’s mother for another, and lastly, when she’d sketched him a wave yesterday afternoon and just walked out the door, reminding Zach to bar it behind her. 

Part of him knows that he’d been straight up worried for her safety. But another part, a very close to his heart part, knows that now he gets itchy when she’s not right beside him, knows that he’s starting to, as crazy and out of place as it feels to him, need her. Worse than that actually, he _wants_ her there, right to hand. He _likes_ her there. Not just in his bed, but in his space. 

The lovely young blonde shifts again, and the sheet gaps toward the ceiling, giving him a glimpse of her breasts. Never one to pass up a free show, he moves enough to get a good look, thinking back to her sitting in his lap, apologizing for a slim, graceful body that needed no defense. He recalls quite vividly what he did next, and how she pressed closer, whimpering with pleasure as he worshipped.

It’s his turn to shift in the bed as the erection he was mostly ignoring becomes a dominating presence. Another thing that Dutch does effortlessly; arouse him. Like any man, he notices females. Has since puberty. But rarely has one been able to make him react, and never this strongly. He’s always thought how stupid men are who go panting after a particular woman; but here he is, the mere sight of her warm pink nipple turning him prehistoric, with only one thing on his mind.

Her finely boned, long-fingered hand flutters, brushing lazily up through her long locks, and a smile, made all the more magic by the contentment in his eyes, lights Vasya’s handsome face. Dutch sighs awake, stretching a kink out of her slender neck and catching him watching her, the look on his face reminding her somehow of the long sunny afternoons of her childhood, and what it felt like not to have a care in the world.

“Are you watching me dream?”

Bending to kiss the soft curve of her shoulder, the solid truth falls right out of his mouth. “I’m just waiting for you to wake up.” 

Her chin lifts just the slightest, and her dimples make a split-second appearance, until their mouths meet in a warm welcoming good morning. There’s no resisting her luminous beauty and he drops a second kiss, very gently, on her nose.

His heart, not to mention his morning wood, lifts as she scrumbles her fingers through the short bristles of his beard, telling him she’s sorry she wasn’t there for the whole church debacle last night, but she’d had some things to think about.

The pale specter of her roommate damps his enthusiasm and he moves to stretch out beside her, flat on his back, flexing his tired arm, trying his best to understand what’s going on here; that inscrutable look is on her face again.

She breaks the silence between them. “Poor Fitzwilliam.” 

Deciding to step over the thorny issue of that woman and her mother and whatever the hell else, he agrees with her sympathy, expressing what is really the more important issue, to him anyway, how useful Palmer’s second in command might have been.

But Dutch clearly doesn’t really want to think about vampires today, shaking her head on the pillow like someone just told her recess was over. “I don’t want to get dressed!”

Now there’s something they can absolutely agree on. “I don’t want you to get dressed either.” He rolls back toward her, pulling the covers out from between them and pressing up over her, his hard penis nudging up against her silken thighs. 

Her answering giggle is half surrender and half serious. “That’s not what I meant.” 

But she still skims her lips over his chin, touching his mouth, flirting deliciously, rubbing her body against his when he tries to confirm one set or the other of her signals. “Hmmmm? You sure?”

Listening to her explain the clothing situation, he waits for his next opportunity to get back to the urgent matter of his erection and her parted thighs, until she says “Maybe I should go and get the rest of my things.”

That feeling, that _need, want, like_ thing that this vibrant woman evokes in him roars to life. “You should. Just clear all your stuff out…” The pause isn’t large, but the sum total of his solitary existence is encompassed within it. “…and move them in here.”

Dutch side-eyes him, stretching, clearly a little surprised and a lot pleased by the offer. And because of the friendship they had before they started having sex, she has no problem smirking at him, even as he steals another kiss, and stating clearly, if humorously, what they’re both thinking. “Moving my things in? That’s not a commitment or anything.”

“Course not…” he retorts, belying the seriousness of this unexpected development. He doesn’t dare say anything else, his heart is beating in her hand, and he wonders for a long second if he’s inscrutable, or if she know precisely what’s running through his brain.

Whatever the decision is, she makes it, and lifts herself against him, pulling him down to kiss, welcoming his weight as their mouths meet and mesh, again and again. He moves a knee between her legs, spreading those long toned thighs to settle his hips in the soft cradle of hers; his deep growl rumbling through them both as he catches the scent of her arousal.

The sensual curve of her body in response, as well as the caress of her meltingly soft mound against his ever more rigid manhood gives Dutch the moment of distraction, she must, he realizes far too late to resist her, have been waiting for. Then she’s on top, one hand slipping down to guide his organ up against her smooth belly, so she can drive him crazy but still have both hands free to… 

He groans into her mouth as she runs her palms up his ribs, stroking his skin, setting his nerves alight. Grunts when her thumbs pause at his nipples and circle, voice jerked a tone higher when she teams that sensation with a slow motion rock of her hips which has the tip of his penis drawing a wet line through the cup of her navel.

“That’s a regular old railspike you’ve got there, handsome.” She whispers against his lips, bracing her knees and giving him a little more friction.

“You like that?” he grumbles, reaching to brush her longs curls out of her eyes, arching his back to press closer yet. 

Her soft affirmative is lost somewhere in the middle of the best French kiss of their relationship.

When airflow finally breaks them apart, sweaty and quivering with hunger, he murmurs, “Maybe you could show me?”

“Oh…” she breathes, drawing herself down to lick the hollow of his throat, then scatter kisses across his chest. “…I would love to.”

It’s literally the work of a moment for Dutch to slip all the way down the length of his body and take the red hot head of his penis into her mouth. She giggles around him as he barely holds back his bellow of appreciation, every muscle tensing, his biceps bulging. 

She releases him long enough to whisper, “Your arms…are positively…pornographic...” Then dives back in and closes her lips around him, drawing hard on his shaft, hands slipping to his hard-muscled thighs to press him to the bed when he arches up for more. 

Vasya surrenders fully to the knowledge that Dutch will turn him into a puddle of helpless, moaning, grumbling-in-Russian need. And he’s not disappointed. Reaching for his clenched fist, she unbends his fingers and lifts his big hand, guiding it until it cups her jaw, his palm spanning her throat from ear to ear. Then she relaxes as completely as possible and slides down onto his thick heat, hard and slow, so he can feel himself being deep-throated.

It’s so good he shouts, senses focused on the mesmerizing motion as she swallows him. His body is demanding he thrust, and he fights the instinctive response; having to wake Nora because Dutch choked on his blowjob is not his idea of great pre-breakfast entertainment. 

But she’s letting up on his hips a little now, slowly pulling away, pausing at his crown long enough, her finger gently trailing up his penis to meet her lip, that he recognizes the invitation.

Silky blonde strands slip through his fingers as he steadies her, staring into her eyes, easing all the way upward, right into heaven, letting himself fall, then easing upward again, heart pounding, cock straining, the jerky dissonance better than any smoother rhythm ever could be.

Words of praise, voiced in several different languages, tumble out of Vasya’s mouth as he races toward the edge. His dark head hits the pillow and his eyes flutter shut, all his attention concentrated on the part of himself his gorgeous partner possesses. 

Dutch begins to rub his belly again, drawing her hand downward from his navel with each thrust, cranking all his dials up to eleven. Later, he’s not sure if he started to come first, or if she started to swallow again first, but either way it went, every relay in his body fries open with ecstasy and he roars out his climax in long bursts of sound, hips jerking.

**************

“You’re awfully cute when I’m waiting for you to wake up as well, you know.” Dutch is perched on his hips, tongue still playing at the corner of her mouth, when his brain finally drops back into his head.

“Am I?” he breathes, reaching for her slim waist, pulling her down onto his broad chest so he can kiss her before the heat of his orgasm dissipates from her lips.

“Yeah.” She’s quieted by his deep, appreciative kisses, beginning to moan softly into his mouth when his hand splays across her bottom and he parts her plump sex with a gentle finger. Boosting her up his body, he fondles the enticing curve of her bottom with one hand and strokes soft furred lips and wet flesh with the other, teasing her entry until she’s whimpering.

Those warm needy noises and Dutch’s eager response bring his erection back to life faster than he’s ever accomplished before. “Railspike.” he murmurs to her, guiding her hand down between them.

There’s a long hum of agreement, and then he’s yelling again as she lifts and parts, and her sleek wet passage slides snugly down until he’s as in as he can get. Did he think her mouth was heaven? _Idiot, he thinks, this is heaven._ What’s too bad is that he can’t keep it.

They established from the first time that condoms are a requirement, Dutch blushing a little as she admitted that she’d batted strictly for one team for about the last four years, give or take, and so hadn’t had to think about that pesky ‘protection’ thing.

“Dushen’ka…” he growls, reaching to still her hips, even though every cell in his body swears at him, colorfully. “Dushen’ka…stop…you have to…we can’t…”

Smoky green eyes, full of that straightforward hunger he so loves about her, meet his as she lifts her head off his shoulder to look at him. “I don’t want to stop.” Then, hands braced on this pillow beside his head, she leans down until her breasts are brushing his chest and ups the tempo, increasing the friction on the sensitive underside of his penis, and it’s a damn good thing he already came or condoms and the lack of them would no longer be an issue.

He can feel and hear and see how much she’s enjoying this little walk on the wild side, the sex and the danger, and he has a discussion with the ironman Cossack in his soul. They’ve gone out on a lot of limbs for each other in the past two weeks, he and Dutch. At least this one is completely within their mutual control. Nothing wrong with putting that control to the test, right?

When his hands stop disagreeing with what his body is telling her, Vasya hears Dutch give a long, sweet growl of pleasure, and shake off the last bit of restraint, pushing up to ride him in earnest. Without benefit of conscious thought, he shifts their positions slightly to perfect the angle and she smirks at him again. “It’s even better when you help.”

“You want help? I’ll give you help.” And he does, adding a hard upthrust to the mix, not every time, not often enough for her to expect it, but definitely enough to drive her, with gratifying speed, to a shattering orgasm. He holds her close as she whimpers and quakes, thrusting deeply into spasming softness, now giving her rhythm to prolong the pleasure as long as humanly possible.

When she slips down onto his chest like a spent, blonde puddle, Vasya stops everything and just cuddles her, ignoring the rumbling need of his own body, allowing himself to imagine what their offspring, if they ever do go that far down the road, if they manage to survive that far down the road, would be like.

Mouthy, for sure. Tall, almost certainly. Independent, absolutely. Dark or fair? His blue eyes? Or her green ones? Boy or girl? Wouldn’t matter. The three of them, or more, living here together. That would be something he’s never considered, not once. But it would be good, great maybe.

Dutch is mumbling into his shoulder, and he smooths her tumbled locks and kisses her forehead gently. This is the right step, the right road. There’s going to be good from all this nightmare, and they’re going to make it.


End file.
